I have three secrets.
1. I'm in the witness protection program. I witnessed my mother's murder when I was eight years old, and now the murderer is after me.
2. I can read minds. Or not "read" them... not exactly. But I can feel them. Every emotion h...
I walk to Dad's room casually, as if my outfit of jeans, combat boots, and a gray pullover sweatshirt — all thrift store finds since money isn't really an abundant thing for anyone who is constantly on the run — is the norm uniform for a Thursday night in our newest house, and having my hair pulled back by a black bandana a la Berthelot style and my eyeliner sharp enough to make a boy nervous is average dress code for me.
I enter coolly, at ease, as if I'm perhaps wearing a tank and pajama bottoms instead of my, as my father calls them, "street clothes." My hope is that he will ride my chill vibes... or something.
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Eli has invited me over.
"Thursday's game night at the Whitneys'," he'd said, "and you're the guest of honor."
He'd been reaching over the table and picking from the leftovers on my tray, something he has made a habit of. He's so lean; I honestly have no idea where he puts it all.
I'd been taken by surprise, although I'd tried my hardest not to show it. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been invited somewhere.
"And what if I can't come?" I'd asked, leaving my obligatory rejection open to interpretation.
"Then you'll push my whole 'giving you a reason to remember' agenda a little behind schedule." He'd grinned, his smile taking over half his face, his eyes nearly ceasing to exist. "I've got big plans for you, Alyssa Renée."
I think I might've grinned back. I'd only considered not even asking for parental permission for a second or two, and I think that must've been his plan.
Dad's wearing his normal Thursday night attire — a pair of gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. He's sitting on the left side of the bed (Mom's was the right side, and he's left it open for her every night since she's been gone), knees up and focusing on his lap through his reading glasses.
I clear my throat. He looks up, looks me up and down, sighs, and lowers his knees flat onto the bed and the crossword puzzle he's working on onto his lap. His aura is muddy, halfway between two — confused and nervous.
"I've been waiting for this day to come for eleven years."
"What day?" I ask quietly, and I realize that I, too, am nervous.
"The day that you'd want to go out with friends," he says. "I honestly thought it'd be sooner."
Be cool. His aura will mimic yours. "I was invited to game night," I say as if it's no big deal.
Dad adjusts his glasses atop his nose and picks the crossword back up. I figure he doesn't want to look at me, doesn't want to see the disappointment on my face when he delivers the bad news.
"You know I can't let you go."
This is okay. This was to be expected. I'd rehearsed a few selling points. I start with the first one. "It's right down the road. This is York; everything's right down the road."
